


the nights are getting shorter

by aeicx



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Just bros being bros, Multi, Mystery, PTSD, Romance, alternates between warren and chloe pov, amnesia au, comatose warren, first person POV, plus all the gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeicx/pseuds/aeicx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you wake up at—let's say, one in the afternoon—you've normally just overslept after staying up until three in the morning, studying for a chemistry test. You usually wake up in your own bed, too.</p><p>I guess it's a little different when you've been asleep for three weeks.</p><p>Alternate universe, set six months after the 'Sacrifice Chloe' ending. Chloe doesn't die, time travel is weird, and the whole cast is stuck in a spiral of mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i don't know where they go

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this one for a while now.
> 
> Have fun!

chloe

I swing my head left and right. I’m scanning the waiting room with enough apprehension to suggest the presence of an oncoming predator, and scratch at the patch on my left wrist. The scab I’d gotten from the drunken fall out of bed from last week still hasn’t stopped itching.

“It won’t heal, either, if you keep picking at it like that,” Max had said. I watched her stick a bandage against the wound. “Why don’t we make a deal? I’ll stop biting my nails if you stop picking at your scabs.”

“Your nails are fine. Plus, it makes it all the easier for, you know.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Bumping uglies.”

“Gross.” Max made a face and shook her head. “At least _pretend_ it’s for a good cause. And besides, you know how much my mom likes to complain about my nails.”

Complain she did. Years ago, my mom would wholeheartedly agree with Max’s mom over afternoon coffee and toast—why, yes, she would say, glancing at the hand I’d rested against the table. Chloe would _love_ to assist Max in painting her nails as part of the newfound training process. I would be her guide, her mentor. Her Yoda. Harvest pretty straight boys with nails, she will.

“Abstinence,” I would declare, and my mom would put her face in her hands and groan. My dad would chuckle.

I haven’t been to a hospital in a while.

“Hi,” I say. The receptionist looks up from her computer. She’s young. Cute. Her scrubs are in deathly shades of bright green that I’d only ever find on elderly women gliding through antique stores. “How can I help you?”

Her teeth are really white. “I’m here to visit, uh. Warren. Warren Graham?”

Why did Max have to send me here _,_ of all places? Asking me to drop off his books while she goes off to meet her grandparents up in Portland. I haven’t seen this guy in a week. Max hasn’t seen him in a day.

Couldn’t she ask, like. I dunno. Maybe Kate, or Brooke? Victoria? Or—

“Could I have your name, please?”

It’s been three weeks, overall.

“Chloe Price.”

“Visiting family or friend?”

 “Friend, I guess.”

Three weeks since we’d first found him.

The receptionist clicks her pen and scribbles something down. “You’ll find him in room 411.”

I have to take a shit. This better be worth it.

* * *

 

I knock.

“Come in.”

I take a deep breath and swing open the door.

It’s a weirdly picturesque view. Warren’s seated on his bed with his back resting against the pillows. He has what looks like a textbook laid out on the mobile table hovering above his bedsheets, but it’s hard to see when he’s got so many gifts and bags piled on his bed. I’m kind of surprised to see just how alert he looks now, compared to the last time I’d seen him. Other than that…

“Dana?”

“Hey,” Dana says. She greets me with a small smile and rises from her seat beside Warren’s bed. She turns to him, draping her handbag over the crook of her elbow, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “I should get going. Call me whenever, okay?”

“Good luck with your drilling.”

“Cheerleading! C’mon, Warren.”

“I’m sorry! I forgot.”

Dana shakes her head, laughing. “Love you.”

I’m too busy ogling at the two of them to notice the nurse trying to get through the door. “Excuse me.”

“Oh—sorry.” I’m tempted to just stand at the line between the door and the rest of the room, but Dana follows after the nurse to exit, and suddenly the room seems really, really empty.

“Nice to see you again,” Warren says. He grins. “You’re the girl that was with Max. C—Claire? Am I right?”

“Chloe. But not bad.” I shrug. Warren chuckles. “Sorry. It’s been a weird week.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I say. The cuts on his face look like they’ve healed a bit, but as the nurse in the corner adjusts the curtains, a momentary flash of afternoon sunlight throws Warren’s bruises into even greater relief. I wince.

“So what brings you here on a, uh. A Thursday, right?” Warren asks.

I nod. Warren works a small fist pump and mouths a tiny _yes_ in victory.

Where to begin? I’m still tempted to watch him, just to make sure that he won’t explode. It’s a ridiculous notion, but the entire…this. The entire hospital. Everything. It’s already starting to make me feel like I’ll suddenly tip over. The smell of antiseptic fills my nose and brings a sour taste to my tongue. It’s too sharp and too clean, like the dull surface of my dad’s desk. After he died, I’d caught Max wiping it down way too many times, trying to keep the dust away.

There is one thing. I take the seat in front of Warren’s bed, once occupied by his most recent guest.

“So. You and Dana, huh? Never would have guessed.” I set the bag full of books down on the floor before the nurse immediately swoops in and sets it on the counter opposite Warren’s bed.

Warren chokes halfway through his glass of water.

I jump—“Whoa, whoa,”—and reaches out to thump his back before hesitating. The nurse peers out from inside the bathroom and starts to shuffle, but Warren waves her away, shaking his head.

“You okay?” I ask. Jesus. “Sorry, I didn’t want to hurt your spine or anything—“

“It’s okay,” Warren gasps. “I just—sorry—you thought—me and _Dana_ —“

“What? Oh, right. The whole cheerleader-nerd dynamic. Okay, look. And this isn’t from personal experience or anything, but once you hit your peak, growth spurts and hormones will do you shit you can’t even—“

“No!” Warren wheezes. While his breath is quickly recovering, I’m pretty sure his face is turning a shade pinker than before. “No. Dana’s my cousin.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s cute. I’ll bet Jennifer Lawrence is your long-lost sister too, huh? Who knows? Maybe Max could even be your girlfriend.” My derisive snort immediately turns into a muted pang of panic.

_Why couldn’t you just keep your damn mouth shut?_

It’s fine. He doesn’t remember anything. Probably.

Warren opens his mouth in protest, but he closes it, and the faintest of twin pink splotches form on his cheeks. “Um…is she? I mean, I don’t wanna pry, but I was wondering if you could tell me about her. Or you. Or maybe everyone, if that’s okay.”

“Haven’t you asked any of the visitors before me?”

Warren looks down at his hands, bandaged and bruised. “Not really. I mean, I asked Dana, and there’s no way I’d ask Max.” He blushes. “Not about that. But Dana just gave me a really weird look and shrugged.” He sighs and rubs his forehead in frustration. “It’s been a week, but I still don’t know much about anyone that came to visit that time.”

He really has forgotten.

“Okay.” I sigh and set my hands on my knees, leaning forward. “You don’t have anything else to do today? No therapy or anything?”

Warren shakes his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Good. This’ll take a while.”


	2. and i am getting older

warren

Dreams are pretty cool. You can take a dip in twelve thousand gallons of liquid nitrogen after rolling back to your best friend’s pool party in fourth grade and come back out unscathed. You can fly above your school building and squirt people with water guns, if it’s a good day, or you can travel back a hundred years and meet Einstein if it’s a _really_ good day. You can forget the first time you took a photo or relive your first kiss. You can do anything.

Dreams usually consist of me getting into some sort of chemical freak accident and getting a really cool superpower, like night vision. Or making a special serum to acquire enhanced regeneration. Cue Nobel Prize.

Nightmares usually consist of me getting a failed grade on a test or having to see my great aunt on New Year’s Day. And, just saying—I usually don’t feel fear grip my muscles and run away screaming, but look where I am now.

I don’t know what I’m running away from, but I’m doing a pretty shitty job. My legs feel like lead and I can’t see. It’s too dark. I can only see the rest of my body, which is pretty well-lit. Maybe a little too well-lit. Is that Einstein on my boxers?

It’s not even, like. Like I’m on a really fast treadmill. It’s like my whole body is sagging. Like I’m holding weights strapped to my ankles, and I can’t move.

I hear footsteps.

They’re slow and steady, and loud. My hands are starting to look like blobs of flesh. Everything’s blurry. My heart is pounding.

I want to scream.

_Stop._

I can’t move. It’s getting closer.

* * *

 

“Warren! Are you listening?”

I turn wildly, almost falling out of my seat. “Whoa.”

I’m sitting next to a girl in what looks like a science lab, perched on a wooden stool. Piles of paper are laid out before me. Smoke rises from beakers filled with bubbling blue liquid.

She adjusts her glasses with a little huff, tapping—no, thumping—her pen against a notepad in irritation.

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Uh.”

“I knew you shouldn’t have stayed up studying,” she mutters under her breath. She shoots me a glare and I scratch the back of my head. What am I doing here? “I swear to god, if this is about—“

I cut her off with a prompt “Have we met?”. Some part of me realizes this is a dream. The other part of me is too busy trying to bring her to memory. Do I know her? Where is she from? Middle school? Tutoring? And where am I?

She looks exasperated. “Real funny. Just open the textbook, Warren.”

I look down. The table’s suddenly gone. My body weight transfers onto nothing, and I fall forward into oblivion. Just empty space. Just white.

Somewhere along the way, I land and slam my head against concrete before jumping back onto my feet. I’m in what looks like a pit. It’s white and light and I can see just fine, but it’s a few hundred feet down under the classroom, so there’s not much I really have to look at. “What the hell? Hey! Let me up!”

“Just open the textbook!” she calls from above.

“Let me back up!” I say, again, and she shakes her head one last time before retreating back into the empty classroom.

I grit my teeth, about to call for help, but I feel something hard and sharp digging into my foot. It’s a large textbook, labelled “Chemistry: the Real Cannibal Holocaust!”

I open the book and find a collection of millions of Polaroids. Literally millions. Nine clear slots fill each page, and as I flip through, I see girls. Lots of them. They’re all recurring faces.

Some of slots, I notice, are filled with pictures of me: there’s one of me as a kid in diapers, leaning against the stairway with a toy truck in hand. Pages and pages of me, just sitting around as a baby—but there’s something weird about these photos. There’s no one else in them, just my own form, ogling at whoever’s holding the camera. I look a little dazed. My stomach turns a bit, and I flip to another section.

The first picture shows a thin, mousy girl, standing next to a taller girl with blue hair. Both of them are grinning and dressed in pirate-themed outfits. It’s a massive collection of girls—just girls, smiling and surrounded by what look like friends and family. There’s one wearing a cross on a necklace, beaming and hugging Mouse Girl from some of the first few photos.

I keep turning the pages. I feel like I know some of these people. But how? I’ve never met them before in my life. There’s no way—and some of them are pretty cute. I would definitely remember.

I stop flipping.

That girl from the previous picture, the one with the cross necklace—it’s her, but she looks…disturbed. No, not disturbed. It’s worse. She looks _blank_. She’s bound by the wrists and ankles, just sitting there.

Her expression actually looks kind of similar to mine in the photos from the opening pages. Dazed, stunned, unfocused. My stomach sinks. Were my photos in monochrome, too?

“Have you finished?” The girl with the glasses from before is yelling again.

“Not yet,” I call back, but when I look back down at the book, I see countless equations and formulas. Diagrams of atoms and protons. The periodic table of elements. No pictures. It’s all gone, replaced by text that’s too vivid and makes too much sense.

Is this a dream?

Is this really a dream?

Someone’s behind me.

“No time for reminiscing about the past, Warren.”

I turn around. It’s a deep, shuddering gasp that racks my lungs and my frame, and it’s when my eyes fly open that there’s suddenly light and noise and smell and _everything._ I’m panting, swallowing air, shaking. White rapidly fades to colors, which transcend past blots and file into lines. Somewhere in all of the blur, I can make out the sound of rapid beeping.

Someone’s speaking to me. It sounds like it’s in another room: blurry and muffled.

I’m in a bed. In a room. I don’t realize that I’m trying to get up, or being pushed back down on the mattress. There’s something loud hurting my ears, leaving my head pounding, and I don’t realize until they shove my head back onto something soft that the sound is coming from me.

I’m screaming. There are needles in my skin. My hands move on autopilot. I rip out the needles and tubes from my forearms, making incoherent noises of distress and I’m quivering, thrashing against warm hands that are pinning me down.

I’m weak. My limbs are so heavy it’s ridiculous. The ceiling is white and there are women surrounding me, dressed in scrubs—

"Warren!”

Is this a hospital?

Someone latches onto my wrist. Handcuffs. My eyes bug out and I _freak._ I scratch at their hands, biting and yelling and crying, and something’s wrapped taut over the front of my body. I’m strapped down to the bed.

Who the hell is this? Why are you touching me?

What am I doing here?

“Let me go!” I howl. My throat is so, so sore. Every red flag in my head is waving, pieces of fabric flapping in the blizzard.

“Warren!”

That voice! There’s a woman hovering over me, to my left. She’s crying—sobbing, even, frantically trying to take my hand and hold on as tight as she can. A male nurse pushes her away and out the door.

“Mom,” I croak, but there’s a sudden sharp sting in my shoulder, and my mother, tired and greying and thin, fades into nothingness.

Just like that, it’s gone.

* * *

There are no dreams.

* * *

It’s bright.

I’m squinting under the light of the sun. As I awaken, there’s a hand holding onto my arm. The grip is gentle, unlike those of the nurses from before.

_Mom!_

The harsh recollection sends my mind into a flurry. I shoot up into a seated position at once, every part of my mind buzzing with alarm.

A number of voices call out to me at the same time. It’s a botched attempt at a harmony, with some holding their breath, some crying out, some struggling not to burst into tears. “Warren!”

My parents have suddenly gathered around my bedside. My mother is holding my hand; plural, tender circles on my wrist suddenly converted to a singular death grip; my dad is hunched over the foot of my bed, face contorted in agony.

There’s a nurse standing by my bedside, patiently watching. A little too closely, in fact. She peers at me for a few seconds, and I think I catch her scribbling something down on her clipboard in my peripheral.

I choke. Seeing my parents sends a wave of relief crashing over me. I am so, so ridiculously happy to see them. I’m so fucking confused and disoriented and just _tired._ What the fuck is going on?

“How…how are you feeling?” my mom asks.

My parents look so _sick_. They’ve been through hell.

“Huh?” I rasp. I wince. My throat is thick and dry, and my voice sounds like a throatier impression of my freshman biology teacher.

My vision is a lot sharper than when I’d woken up last. It’s a little perplexing. I open my mouth, then close it again. My mouth is dry.

Someone clears their throat.

I look up, past my mother and towards the back of the room, and my jaw drops by a quarter of an inch. There’s a crowd of four or so, having silently gathered during all the commotion. One girl steps forward. She’s small, but the look in her eyes suggests a sort of determination that makes me wonder.

She holds out a balloon and a bouquet of flowers. There’s an envelope—a card?—at her side, held by a taller girl with blue hair.

The shorter girl swallows.

“You were in a coma,” she says, “for a month.” She takes the card from her friend and moves to me.

Through all of this, through the silence that’s flooded the room, I glance at the other faces behind her. They’re both girls: one with a cross strung around her neck, and another tall, blonde one, who kind of looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but.

“Huh?” I say again.

What did she say?

“A coma,” my dad repeats. “You were out. Max found you in the junkyard. You were barely breathing.”

The junkyard?

“Junk…yard.” God, what is wrong with me? The word comes out so incoherently. I can’t form my thoughts into words. Maybe it’s the shock.

“You overdosed, Warren.”

What?

That’s ridiculous. I’ve never taken any substance that any figure of authority would disapprove of. Not too often, anyway. If I'm not working on chemistry, I'm way too busy playing World of Warcraft or geeking out over bizarre horror films. Anyone who’s known me for a single fucking week would know that.

I flit my gaze between either of my parents, blinking.

This is a joke.

“I see you’ve woken up.”

A man in a white coat saunters through the door. He flips through some pages in a packet and clicks his pen, scribbling something down, and takes a stool beside my bed. The nurse writes something on her clipboard, too. “How are you feeling, Warren? I’m Dr. Lee. I don’t suppose you remember me?”

Out of all the people in scrubs that were poking me with needles, I don’t recall any distinct face.

“Uh,” I say.

Goddammit, why can’t I talk?

As if he can read my mind, the doctor looks to the nurse, who nods. “Ah. If you’re having some difficulty with speaking, I assure you that we have that taken care of. It’ll gradually recover with time, as your brain readjusts. Nothing to worry about.”

I stare at him.

The doctor clicks his pen and glances at his papers before shuffling them, putting them away, and leaning forward in his chair.

“Do you understand why you’re here, Warren?”

I nod, even if I’m not sure if I believe it. I don’t know. “Yeah.” I cringe; it sounds so wobbly, watery.

“You were in a medically induced coma. You were drugged to the point of unconsciousness, and someone took you to the junkyard in Arcadia Bay and left you there for dead.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face.

“It feels like it’s only been a couple days, doesn’t it? You’ve been out for a month. You’ll be receiving therapy and treatment for some time here, but your family and friends will be gradually permitted more and more extended hours of visitation as we advance further into your recovery. We have Maxine to thank here—if your friend hadn’t spotted your body, it’s more than likely that you would not be here with us.”

My eyes drift over the gaggle of girls, who are all sort of huddled together in a pack, like they’re trying to keep warm. All with the exception of the brown-haired girl, with the balloons and the bouquet.

For some reason, my line of vision falls onto the tallest girl—the preppy one, with pearls wrapped around her neck and a phone caged tight within her fingers. She catches my eye and scowls.

“Don’t look at me,” she says. “ _She’s_ the one who did the saving.” She jerks her head to the latter.

The girl in question looks at me nervously.

“I don’t,” I say, and I clear my throat with audible force. “Do I know…you?”

Her eyes widen.

“Not funny, dude,” the blue-haired girl snaps. She takes a step forward, and I look at her.

“Are who…Who are you?”

I say it with such conviction and such bewilderment that she halts in her tracks, staring.

“Warren,” my mom says, tugging on my sleeve. “Warren.” She’s really desperate. Her eyes are shining with tears. I haven’t seen her like this since my grandmother died, and I reach out to hug her instinctively. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course, mom.” I sound a lot clearer this time. I mouth a silent _yes_ in victory. “But…I don’t know.” I look down, then back up. “Who them—they are.”

I’m suddenly aware of the intensity of everyone’s gaze. The tall blonde girl has stopped picking lint off her sleeves, and the other has suddenly started rubbing the cross on her neck. The blue-haired girl is staring at me long and hard. “Are you serious?” she says. Her tone is laced with ice, for some reason. I fidget with the hem of my hospital gown.

Why would I joke about this?

It seems like forever until anyone speaks. “Retrograde,” the doctor mutters, and I’m about to open my mouth and ask what that is, until the door suddenly slams open and the nurse stops writing and someone’s panting, looking at me with wide, wild eyes, leaning against the doorframe for support.

It’s a boy around my age. He’s wearing a red preppy jacket, with his hair gelled back into a sleek form. He kind of reminds me of the greasers from that one musical—I haven’t watched that in a while. What was it called again? I remember seeing it with my family when I was only five—I can remember the tune to one of the songs, but I—

The boy lunges at me. He’s suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist, and he’s breathing heavily into my shoulders, shaking. “Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my fucking god.”

I awkwardly pat his back. I don’t know this guy, either. Not gonna lie, though—the hug is something of a comfort. Still, the mousy girl—Maxine—reaches over and gently takes his shoulder. “Nathan,” she says. “Nathan.”

He turns around, eyes red and half-lidded. He looks exhausted, like seeing me has caused all the tension in his form to just collapse back onto his body weight. I feel kind of bad.

“He doesn’t remember,” she says.

“Of course he doesn’t,” he snaps. “Why the fuck would he remember that?”

“No.” Maxine shakes her head, slowly. “He doesn’t remember _us_.”

“What the fuck do you mean he doesn’t remember us?”

The lingering rotation of his head refutes the assurance in his retort. “What does she mean, Warren?”

“Huh?” I’m suddenly having trouble forming words. “Uh.”

Nathan twirls on the spot and glares at the doctor. “ _What is she saying?_ ”

“It seems,” Dr. Lee replies, “that Warren is suffering from a bout of retrograde amnesia."

“And?”

“His past memories are lost. It’s not how it is in the movies, where he forgets who he is, or the entire timeline of his life—but it seems to be that he’s forgotten a part of it. Perhaps a large chunk,” he says, gaze meandering towards Nathan, who flushes and lowers his eyes to the floor.

“So…” Maxine says, counting off on her fingers. “It’s been seven months since we first met.”

My stomach plummets. Have I lost that much in a month of being unconscious?

“What do you remember, Warren? How far back?”

“Blackwell,” I respond immediately. No second thoughts. The rapt response makes me sigh in relief, as does the rest of the room. “I was…accepted.”

“That’s it? Only until you were accepted?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Acceptance letter.” I stutter through the last bit of the sentence.

“If I’m correct, that means he’s forgotten everything there is to know in the past year,” the girl with the cross says. “He hasn’t forgotten his family, or his old friends. But he’s forgotten us. All of us,” she says, pointedly, and Nathan’s still staring at the floor until he slams the door open and sprints out, with the tall blonde running after him. “Nathan!”

“So,” the girl with the cross says, watching the spot where the door had flown open. She looks like she’s about to cry. “You’ve been at Blackwell for the past seven months. We don’t know who drugged you, and we don’t know who left you at the junkyard.

“Considering that you've lost all memory of everything that's happened in the past year, you're also seventeen. Not sixteen."

She gives me a watery smile.

"Happy birthday, Warren."


End file.
